


That Dude's the Man!

by rivers_bend



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF, Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Double Penetration, Established Relationship, M/M, Nick/Harry - Freeform, Threesome - M/M/M, cock and fingers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:32:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan’s done some crazy shit in his time, but he’s still not sure how a few fumbled makeouts and some frustrated grinding with Harry Styles at an MTV promo week in LA has led to being tied spread-eagle and naked to Harry’s boyfriend’s bed in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Dude's the Man!

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since I saw [this video of Dylan getting excited about Harry](http://youtu.be/wlcU5BSGf6U?t=1m55s) I've wanted to write porn about them. So here it finally is.
> 
> The Obvious: I do not know any of the people whose names and public personas are used in this story and neither believe nor mean to imply this ever happened.
> 
> Thank you to beckaandzac for her read-through and smart suggestions, and to all my girls who held my hand when this was going terribly wrong.

Most people don’t ever get to really actually meet their celebrity crushes, so don’t have to think about how far they’d go with them if they did. When you’re on TV, you do get to meet them sometimes, but it turns out that doesn’t really make any difference. At least not when you’re Dylan O’Brien, because your celebrity crushes don’t usually want you back. 

Apparently, unless your crush is Harry Styles. 

MTV is having a whole promo _week_ : parties every day, networking and schmoozing and presentations and food, with press and goodie bags and not nearly enough booze. At the second shindig, Dylan’s stuck talking to a guy who knew his dad twenty years ago, when a suit-jacket-clad arm hooks around his waist and someone’s chin digs into his shoulder. The person’s too tall to be Posey or Bohen, too skinny to be Hoechlin, and Colton isn’t here, which leaves Dylan struggling to figure out who else is comfortable enough to get all up in his space like that. Then a distinctive British accent murmurs in his ear, “I hear you think I’m awesome.” 

Harry fucking Styles, thank you very much, whisks him away from boring dad-dude and gets him a drink, and starts flirting with an intensity Dylan hasn’t seen since Holland set her sights on Ian. Like Ian, Dylan is powerless to resist. By the final night gala they’ve done a little dirty dancing and some making out in corners, but Harry’s talked about his friend Nick enough that Dylan’s put that and all the pap pictures he’s seen of them together and come up with Harry’s not on the market for more than a bit of fun. At the end of the week, Harry goes back to London, Dylan goes back to not wearing a tie, and everything is good. 

Which doesn’t explain at all how, four months later, Dylan has ended up tied spread-eagle and naked to Harry’s boyfriend’s bed in London, Harry propped over him on elbows and knees while Nick fingers him open for Dylan’s cock. 

Like. Dylan understands the part where MTV Europe invited him and Posey and Hoechlin over to present some awards show, and how Harry was there and seemed excited to see him again. And the sequence of events that led to him going for drinks with a large group that included not only Harry and the famous DJ he’s mostly secretly fucking, but Kelly Osborn and one of Bob Geldof’s daughters is clear, if not exactly something that Dylan believes even now is his life. Despite all the alcohol, he even remembers how he ended up in a booth in a corner with Harry half in his lap and half in Nick’s while the two invited him for an early dinner the next day. 

It’s the part where they followed that up by asking if he wanted to fuck Harry, and he said _hell yes_ , and the part where they asked how he felt about bondage and he said, _um, sure?_ before saying hell yes again just in case they were going to change their minds, where it starts to get fuzzy. Because Dylan’s done a lot of crazy shit in his life, but the list doesn’t include things like kinky threesomes with guys he’s had celebrity crushes on for ages and their hot boyfriends. Not that he’s complaining. He’s so not complaining. 

Not with Harry’s face inches from his own, lips soft and pink and slack around the sighs and little sounds he’s making as Nick moves behind him. When Dylan’d kissed Harry in Los Angeles, Harry’s eyes had been bright, full of mischief, but now they’re half lidded like Harry’s lost in the sensation of Nick’s fingers. Dylan wants to kiss him now, grab his head and pull him down, bite his lips and suck his tongue, but Nick hasn’t said he could, and Dylan’s not sure how to ask. Even though they’d said that was okay, and Harry’d made it pretty clear Nick would probably say yes to whatever Dylan wanted, it still seems like too much cheek. Like winning the Lottery jackpot and asking if you can have the next guy’s winnings too. 

So he tugs at his bonds a little, watches Harry’s face as he rocks back into the fingers Nick’s working into his ass. That would be a sight to see, Dylan bets, and he wishes he could, that Nick had big mirrored closet doors like Dylan had in his Atlanta apartment, but he can only see the shift of Nick’s shoulder over the curve of Harry’s ass and the effect that has on Harry. Not that that’s a bad view. 

“Nick,” Harry moans as he arches back hard like Nick’s not giving him enough. That gets him a swat on his thigh, and suddenly Dylan’s got a thread of precome cooling on his belly under the bob of Harry’s cock. And that’s. That’s, yeah. Dylan’s seen the videos—he’s not a stalker; everyone’s seen the videos—and wondered a little at how many slap fights Harry seems to initiate, at how often he and his band go in for junk-smacking, but fuck. Dylan wonders if Nick might spank Harry more. If he might let Dylan try if Harry wanted. Dylan thinks he might like to see his handprints on Harry’s skin. 

“Kiss him,” Nick says, jerking Dylan back to the here and now. “Make it dirty.” Dylan isn’t sure which one of them Nick’s talking to, but they both respond, Dylan lifting his head to meet Harry who’s dropping down to do as Nick said. Dylan has to work a little to catch Harry’s lips at the right angle, keep the kiss there so Harry’s not just mouthing at his chin, and he’d like to be able to use his hands, hold Harry still for his kisses, but he can’t deny the hot twist in his gut because he can’t, the rush of adrenalin because he’s not in control here. 

Harry’s whimpering into Dylan’s mouth, short harsh sounds in time with the rhythm of him thrusting on Nick’s hand, and Dylan can’t help biting Harry’s lip just to see if he can elicit a sound of his own, make Harry respond to _him_. He succeeds in getting a long low moan, and then there’s a hand on his hip, firm, squeezing, and Nick’s voice again, “You ready for him, kid?” and god, he’s _so fucking ready_.

“Yeah, yes, yes,” Harry pants, and Nick huffs amusement, says, “Wasn’t asking you, popstar. I know you’re ready.” 

“Ready,” Dylan rushes to say. “Ready.” Before he’s half done, Nick’s hands are on Dylan’s dick, rolling a condom on, slicking him with lube in a single efficient caress. The mattress shifts between his spread thighs, and Nick’s hands appear over Harry’s shoulders, lifting him up and back, steadying him to hover over Dylan’s cock. 

Harry leans right back against Nick’s chest, sucks a kiss to the corner of his jaw, nuzzles under his ear, and Dylan doesn’t miss how that makes Nick smile, press his cheek onto the top of Harry’s head for a moment before resettling his hands on Harrys hips, lining him up. “You gonna stick his dick in you, or am I?” Nick asks, speaking to Harry obviously, but looking Dylan in the eye as he says it, like he wants to make sure Dylan realizes what they’re doing here. 

Dylan can’t think of anything to say, though, not with Harry reaching up to wrap both hands around Nick’s neck, saying, “You, please. Put him in me.” It’s fucking porn. Porn happening on Dylan’s lap. 

Nick’s right hand disappears behind Harry’s ass then reappears between his spread thighs, fingers on Dylan’s dick, and Dylan can see it, he can _feel_ it, but he still can’t quite wrap his brain around the fact that it’s happening. His brain should shut up, probably. And that’s— Nick’s rubbing Dylan’s cock against Harry’s hole, and Harry’s thighs are straining either side of Dylan’s hips, and his head catches, Harry twitches, and then Nick’s holding him steady as Harry starts to sink down. 

And Dylan “Stiles Stilinski” O’Brien is fucking Harry Styles from One Direction. Actually fucking him. For real.

He’s never— None of the girls he’s ever been with have wanted to do ass stuff, and his experience with guys has stopped at drunk (or stoned. Or both) hand jobs, and this is definitely not that. It’s kinda more work, ass fucking, even though he’s literally just lying here taking it while Harry uses Nick’s shoulders for leverage to lift up, drops down under the guidance of Nick’s hands on his hips. It’s work Dylan wouldn’t mind getting more familiar with, though, for sure. 

For all he’s under strain, it’s nothing to what Harry’s doing. Dylan can’t stop staring at Harry’s abs and thighs, the muscles shifting under his skin, how even his arms flex with the rolling of his hips, but then the light catches the string of precome stretching from Harry’s cock to Dylan’s belly, and that captures his attention completely. 

Christ, Harry really likes getting fucked. 

“You fucking love this,” Dylan blurts, eyes flicking to Nick as the words leave his mouth. The dude’s probably not gonna take it as an insult, given the circumstances, but Dylan only met him last night, so he can’t be sure. Harry is clearly _really_ into it though. 

“Answer him, love,” Nick prompts Harry. 

Harry moans, his cock jerks and another bead of precome streams onto Dylan’s abs. Nick’s hands dig into his hips, stilling him, making Harry gasp out, “Yes. Yes, yes,” before Nick lets him move again. Dylan forgets for a moment his wrists are bound, and nearly pulls his arms out of the sockets he wants to touch so badly. 

“You need more?” Nick asks his boyfriend, not looking at Dylan at all this time. 

More. Dylan isn’t sure what more he is supposed to do, legs tied down, Harry’s weight pinning his hips; he’s doing what he can here to not just fucking come already. But then Harry’s arms come down and he’s leaning over Dylan’s chest again, almost but not quite in kissing distance, and Dylan feels Nick’s fingers on the base of his cock where it’s disappearing into Harry’s body. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, hips jerking up hard, throwing Harry off balance so he nearly headbutts Dylan’s chin. 

“Steady,” Nick murmurs, the hand not teasing Harry’s hole and Dylan’s nuts settling firm on Dylan’s hip. 

“Yeah,” Dylan tries to say, but it comes out all shaky. Nick’s fingers tickle, and Harry’s still all hot and tight and slick around him, though at least he’s not moving, because Dylan’s not sure he could take that on top of everything else. 

Except then Harry _is_ moving, lifting his ass like he wants to give Nick better access or something, and Dylan feels his dick sliding out, can’t help trying to push it back in, but Nick’s holding him down, and then his fingers aren’t tickling so much as pushing, sliding the length of Dylan’s cock to the edge of Harry’s hole, and then Harry’s sliding back down and Nick’s still there, still, fucking, _there_ , and Harry’s _face_ , flushed, sweat beading on his upper lip, his eyelids fluttering, and his tongue darts out to lick at the corner of his mouth, and his hips rock back and he’s got what feels like three fingers and Dylan’s cock inside him and he’s making these noises, broken and breathy, and they sound like Nick’s name, and he tucks his chin to his chest so all Dylan can see is the wild spray of his hair— Then Dylan’s got his eyes closed because that’s the only way to deal with what it feels like to have some dude rubbing your cock while you’ve got it up some other dude’s ass. 

And Dylan’s got to move, he’s _got to_ , but Nick’s holding his right hip down, so he can’t do much, then it doesn’t matter anyway, because Nick’s moving enough for all of them, rubbing Dylan’s cockhead, making it so Harry’s so fucking tight around him, making Harry make the most amazing noises, and Nick’s talking, too, filth and praise streaming out of his mouth, and Dylan’s coming, jerking at his bonds, making his own noises to rival Harry’s. 

Nick’s fingers slide out first, grip the base of the condom, and then Harry lifts up and off him, his cock bouncing, still hard, and jesus, Dylan’s heard about guys taking two cocks at once, and never quite believed that was possible, but he can’t help wondering. Wondering if Harry’s maybe even done it. But the actual porn is happening in his lap again—Nick gathering Harry into his arms, kissing his cheek, his neck, and at some point he’s shoved his briefs down enough to get his dick out and he’s pushing into Harry’s ass with it, fucking up into him with sharp snaps of his hips, one arm across Harry’s chest, the other hand on Harry’s right wrist, encouraging him to touch himself. It takes Harry a minute to get it, but then his fingers wrap around, and Nick’s fucking him into the curl of his own fist, and he’s leaking again onto Dylan’s thigh, and Dylan can see his own dick, ridiculous in its latex wrapper still, twitching a little as he watches Harry get fucked. 

Once he’s got a hand on himself, it doesn’t take Harry long to come. Nick whispers something Dylan can’t hear, twists Harry’s left nipple, and Dylan’s got jizz spattering his belly, his hip, his ribs. Nick lets Harry drop forward then, and he goes to his elbows, kissing Dylan, and it’s like when Nick was prepping him, except not. Harry’s already open, lose in his body, but holding himself steady for Nick to thrust into, and it’s fucking hot. Hotter even than when Harry was working at it. 

Then Nick must come, silently—and huh, Dylan wouldn’t have expected that—because Harry’s not kissing him anymore, is collapsed half on top of him, hands clumsily undoing the buckles at Dylan’s near wrist, while Nick pushes his fringe off his face, smiling at them both. 

“Wow,” Dylan says, gingerly pulling his arm down to his side, feeling the ache and tug of muscles he’s not accustomed to using like that. Nick huffs what sounds like agreement before he turns enough to undo Dylan’s ankles while Harry gets his other hand. 

Dylan’s still flexing feeling back into his fingers when Nick flops down beside him, holding out a handful of tissues. Not the best for cleanup, but they’ll do. “No bitching,” Nick says as he hands Harry one too. Harry doesn’t look like he has the energy for bitching. Or anything, really. Dylan feels a little awkward stuck between them. It must show on his face or something, because Nick takes the tissues from him when he’s done, and says, “Don’t tell me you don’t cuddle, O’Brien. I’ve seen the pictures of you and your castmates.” Dylan tries not to wonder if Nick sought the pictures out or if Harry showed them to him, and when this happened.

“He cuddles,” Harry says, wrapping around him and nuzzling into his neck. Nick does the same from the other side, and next thing Dylan knows they’re holding hands on his chest and it’s kinda disgustingly adorable. And a little bit awkward.

It’s not very long before Harry goes heavy like he’s asleep, but Dylan can practically hear Nick’s brain whirring in his ear. “You okay?” Dylan finally asks, softly, so as not to wake Harry up. 

“Haz was going to cook for us later,” Nick whispers. “But I think we should get takeaway.” 

“Dinner wasn’t just a euphemism?” Dylan had sorta figured they were just easing him into the sex part of the invite. 

“Harry would never forgive me if we didn’t feed you,” Nick says. 

“Mmm, dinner,” Harry murmurs, mouth moving on Dylan’s shoulder. 

“Showers first,” Nick says. 

And that’s a great idea. Shower. He can leave them to cuddle, have a minor freak-out in private, and then after, they can all overdose on Indian. That’s what you eat in London, right? Indian food. 

“I’ll take the first one,” Dylan says, starting to free his limbs from the tangle. 

Harry makes a sound of protest, but he eases his hold and kisses Dylan’s shoulder, his cheek, his mouth, and then moves enough so Dylan can actually get up. 

“Towels in the cabinet,” Nick says, already moving to pull Harry towards him. 

“Water’ll be hotter than you think,” Harry adds. He nuzzles into Nick’s chest, insinuates his leg between his boyfriend’s. Nick’s hand strokes down his spine. 

Dylan’s picking up his clothes when Nick says, “Takeaway menus are in the drawer under the kettle.” It sounds a lot like he’s asking Dylan not to sneak off, and it eases the twinge in Dylan’s chest.

When he sees Nick’s bathroom, he’s grateful that the last time he was in England, his hotel had electric showers, so now he doesn’t have to go in and disturb his hosts to get instructions. While he’s waiting for the water to heat up, he texts Posey: _You will not believe my afternoon_. 

_I want all the details and also none of them. The weed in this place sucks, but the beer is amazing. When you back?_

Dylan considers for a brief moment how much less potentially awkward it would be to just cut out now and go back to drink beer with Tyler and Tyler, but that would be rude, and Dylan isn’t rude. Plus, he’d have to spend the rest of his life admitting he walked out on a post-threesome dinner date. In case this is the only threesome he ever has, he should get the full experience. _Later tonight,_ he sends, and then puts his phone safely out of reach of falling in the sink and jumps in the shower. 

Where he finds he doesn’t really need to freak out after all. 

When he emerges, clean and dressed and grinning like a fucking idiot because he just had stupidly awesome sex with a pop star, Nick is standing in the bedroom doorway in a really short robe. “Hi,” Dylan says, grin still plastered in place. He hopes Nick doesn’t think he’s laughing at him. 

“Don’t suppose you want to put the kettle on while you’re getting menus,” Nick asks winningly. 

Also featured in his first ever English hotel room: an electric kettle. Dylan’s pretty sure he’s got this. “You probably don’t want me actually making the tea,” he warns, though. 

“God forbid I ask a yank to brew anything,” Nick says, returning Dylan’s smile, though he doesn’t look as manic as Dylan feels. “I’ll be quick, don’t worry.” 

He gives Dylan time to find an Indian menu and a Chinese in case the others prefer that, and for the kettle to boil, before he reappears in a faded, baggy Joan Jett tee and black, not-at-all baggy boxer briefs. Dylan hopes he’s not overdressed in his flannel over a t-shirt and jeans. 

It turns out, when the guy is Nick Grimshaw, it’s remarkably easy to chat with a virtual stranger who’s just seen you naked and tied up and fucking his boyfriend. Harry’s still asleep, but Nick knows what he likes, so they order food and talk about music and being in a band versus being on TV, and making YouTube videos, and being on the radio, and about the difference between being Nick’s dad and a football fan and Dylan and a baseball fan, and about Coachella, and LA versus New York City, and it’s not weird at all that Nick’s wearing his underwear the whole time, even though maybe it should be. 

Harry emerges still a little sleep-rumpled and smelling of body wash about ten minutes after the doorbell rings with the food to sit curled against Nick’s side with his toes tucked under Dylan’s thigh, a bowl with a little of everything they’ve ordered clutched to his chest. He doesn’t say much, but he smiles a lot, and pokes Dylan with his foot when he likes what Dylan’s saying. It’s definitely not _better_ than the afternoon, but Dylan’s pretty sure it’s just as good. 

Posey texts again just as Dylan’s considering going back for thirds to say they’re going clubbing and does he want to come. Dylan looks at the way Harry’s nearly asleep again against Nick’s shoulder, and figures it’s maybe time to move on. “I should go,” he says, settling his fork and knife more securely on his plate. “Did you want some help with—?” He gestures at the pile of takeout cartons on the coffee table. 

“Naah,” Nick says. “Just set it there. Your boys want you back?” 

“Everyone wants him back,” Harry says.

Nick smiles. “Think that’s an invitation, next time you’re in London.” 

Dylan takes that as a massive compliment. “I will definitely keep your number in my phone.” 

“Speaking of—“ Nick holds a hand out, so Dylan hands his phone over. He assumes Nick’s going to put his number in it, but instead he makes a call. “Need a taxi,” he says, then gives his address and the name of Dylan’s hotel. 

He does take his plate to the kitchen, which gets him a lingering kiss from Harry, and a shorter but no less thorough kiss from Nick and then his phone’s ringing to say his cab’s here. “Call you next time I’m in LA,” Harry says as Dylan’s on his way out the door. 

“I was right,” Dylan tells him. “You’re totally awesome.”


End file.
